Poetry: That’s Not Bad

In the doctor’s office—
a computer, printer,
some chairs, and an exam
table we won’t use;
latex gloves, a biohazard
box, and two other waste cans;
a sink that may get used.
On the wall a framed art print.

Voices in the hall 20 minutes
after my appointed time, but it’s
okay. I can write this poem
and be glad I’m alive. Knock.

Two doctors walk in. My regular guy
and his knockout resident from
the A&M med school. We greet,
shake, talk small, then good news.

Return in six months. Shake again.
I drive home. Stop for gas.
I wear a smile—cuz good news.

Look both ways driving home, for good news and bad.
Check the tires and mind the gaps.
Doctors sure have changed over the years—for the mo’ betta’.

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